


Car Alarm Heart

by justinewritesfiction



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-30 21:14:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15759822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justinewritesfiction/pseuds/justinewritesfiction
Summary: The papers were awful to Pansy Parkinson, but they called her things she already knew. Ugly, pug-nosed, whiny, desperate, traitorous brat. It was nothing she hadn’t already heard before. || Pansy copes after the War. Pansy-centric. Mature in later chapters.





	Car Alarm Heart

**Author's Note:**

> “Is there a word for the moment you win tug-of-war? When the weight gives, and all that extra rope comes hurtling towards you, how even though you've won, you still end up with muddy knees and burns on your hands? Is there a word for that? I wish there was.” Sarah Kay
> 
>    
> First fic, no beta, so be kind! I'm looking for a beta, so let me know if you want to jump in.

It was in the first few days after the War that Pansy Parkinson turned 18. She woke up bleary-eyed and somber on the Wednesday after what The Prophet called The Final Battle and slowly, wordlessly, made herself breakfast in the kitchen as her father looked on with a bewildered expression.

Their house elf, Cluster, stuttered and tried to take the toast and marmalade from her hands, “W-w-would the y-young M-m-miss like C-c-c-c-cluster to prepare her a c-c-c-up of tea w-w-ith a splash of m-m-milk and h-honey?”

Pansy looked up from the kitchen counter and met the creature’s frightened eyes. Cluster looked like she was close to tears, fearful that she had done something dreadfully wrong without knowing, shaking at the thought of the punishment to come. She nervously held her hands out for Pansy to give her the butter knife and the toast so that she could do it for her instead. Pansy’s stomach recoiled at the expression on the House Elf’s face; Merlin and Morgana, was she sick of that feeling, that expression. She’d seen it too often not to recognize it. It had been in the hallways, lurking in corridors—the looks of suppressed horror and panic on Third Years faces when the Carrows’ walked past in their heavy boots and dark, gothic robes.

Pansy swallowed. “That won’t be necessary, Cluster,” she said curtly. She was a product of nothing but the finest Pureblood upbringing, steeling her nerves and offering a polite and dismissive response. “But do heat some water for my tea.”

“Darling—” her father started, staring at his daughter with confusion. His laugh had the edge of irritation and outrage. He beckoned her to join him at the table. “My, what’s gotten into you, Pansy? Come now, girl. Sit and give Cluster the pleasure of doing her duties on your birthday. Do not interfere with a House Elf’s inventiveness. It is their natural place to serve us.”

Pansy did not move from her spot. In her silk robe and her soft fur-lined slippers, she stood by the window of the Parkinson’s Italian villa, staring out into the Riviera. She ignored the way her hands shook as she carefully spread marmalade on her toast, as if this task was so foreign and so complicated, as if she hadn’t eaten the same marmalade and toast for breakfast every day since her First Year at Hogwarts. She took a bite and chewed, quiet and lost in her thoughts, blinking back fat tears in her eyes. She stood, perplexed, as if her father’s words had wounded her. It was too familiar, too normal.

Today, she turned 18. In Pureblood tradition, when a witch turned 18, a ball is held announcing her debut into high society. In that week leading up to her birthday, Mr. Parkinson would have opened his study to visitors: the fathers and sons from other Pureblood families. The men walk in with their lawyers, and if all goes well, a contract is drafted, and Pansy is called to join her father in the study after dinner to discuss her opportunities. She would have taken hours pretending to decide, as if it had not been clear to her from the night Draco had kissed her at Yule Ball that she would accept their proposal and sign her name with her wand on the contract one day. It would have been announced at her birthday ball. There would have been music, champagne, a large emerald ring on her finger, and Draco in his dark robes and those bright blue eyes smirking at her, so elegant that it almost hurt to look at him.

She reached for the jar of tea leaves, the ceramic pot, and the kettle. Her eyes searched for the jar of honey. She lamented silently on the absence of a ring on her scarred and calloused fingers, no longer soft and smooth as expected of an heiress. She had cuts from picking and searching the walls of Hogwarts for secret rooms and escape routes, trying to find a way out for her friends and the younger ones if the time came that they could no longer play the Death Eater’s games. The terrors of living in that castle lingered on her body: under her robes, her ribs and hips jut out and showed just how hollow she was between her bones. Dark circles from sleepless nights bruised the skin under her eyes.

She eyed the untouched copy of The Daily Prophet on the counter: more sensationalized headlines about the aftermath of the war, another unflattering photo of Lucius Malfoy, another article upbraiding the gutless Sacred 28, now hiding and escaping to their secret safe havens all over Europe and America. The public wanted retribution: they wanted a witch hunt, they wanted public trials, they wanted the complete and utter annihilation of the Pureblood elite and the Slytherins – oh, especially those _slimy, scummy Slytherins_. It’s almost as if they had forgotten who funded and built the very streets and halls of the Magical Society they walked on in the first place.

In the aftermath, there was no distinguishing the Death Eaters from the Purebloods or those who were just caught in the cross hairs of the thorny political web of Voldemort’s Mission and old Pureblood tradition and just desperately trying to survive it. Her father had been careful. There were no provable ties between her family and Lord Voldemort, definitely not ones that would hold up in court, but it didn’t mean that she would be welcome in many places. Some of that was her fault.

As of her birthday, Pansy is legally accountable for all her decisions and actions as a full-grown Witch. In the eyes of the Ministry, as she was now legally able to enter into contracts, written and sealed or otherwise upheld by magic, and be bound to them. A letter from her lawyer arrived at her window that morning, reminding her that under the protection of the Underage laws of the Ministry of Magic, she was not liable for any of her actions in the War, only the ones moving forward.

_A gentle reminder, Ms. Parkinson, to take caution in the next few moments as we wait for the dust to settle. Consider a fresh start._

As she stared at the cold, empty eyes of Lucius Malfoy snarling at her from the front page of the Daily Prophet, she could not bring to herself to feel relief she was supposed to feel. There was no satisfaction from promise of absolution, the freedom from the legal burden of being on the wrong side of the Final Battle. After all, it had only been 3 days since the events at Hogwarts took place. She very nearly missed.

 

 ______________________________________________________________________

 

It would take months for Narcissa Malfoy to access whatever remained of the Black family fortune. With all the Malfoy assets frozen, the Manor in complete disrepair and 24/7 lockdown, and the father and son in custody, word had it that the delicate matriarch of the Malfoy Manor had sought refuge with her estranged sister, Andromeda. The one who ran way and married a Muggle.

Pansy knew this from whispers in the Slytherin Common Room in their Sixth Year, when the emergence of a certain pink-haired Metamorphmagus caused a stir among the curious students. Draco was too distracted to react the way he normally would, so it was Pansy who did. She silenced the whispers and punished those who dared sully the Malfoy name with such derisive gossip. She had hoped that Draco eventually would recognize her for her initiative. She was looking out for him, just as she always did. Looking back, she realized he had other things on his mind than embarrassing ‘blood traitor’ relatives and lovesick girlfriends.

To access the vaults that contained her inheritance, the remains of the Black family fortune, Narcissa would need the approval of any remaining heirs. Andromeda had been disowned the night she left Grimmauld Place. So that left Narcissa’s grand-nephew, the 1-year old Theodore Lupin whose legal guardian was none other than the man of every hour, Harry Potter. Pansy also knew this: Draco, thin and frail and on the edge of his wits, rotting in a cold cell in Azkaban, did not have months to wait for a decision to be made. So, it was she who paid for a solicitor to negotiate on Draco’s behalf.

For weeks, the lawyers met and Narcissa worked tirelessly to build a case for Draco, as if she had completely forgotten about her husband and his declining sanity as he sat in a windowless cell at the highest tower of Azkaban. On the day of his trial, Pansy had waited in the counsel room, listening to the muffled sound of the Magistrate reviewing Draco’s case and questioning the volunteers that testified on his behalf.

Pansy’s knuckles had gone white from gripping the edge of the table and the corner of her stole was starting to come apart as she nervously picked at it. _Harry Potter is testifying_ , she repeated to herself over and over again, _Harry Potter. For Draco._ The thought filled her with so many unfamiliar, unnamable feelings. She sat alone, wordlessly waiting for the feelings to take shape, struggling to understand and process where one emotion ended and where the other began. She could taste the bitter thirst in her mouth, the growling of acid and guilt and gratitude and shame churned in her stomach as she wrung her fingers in nervous anticipation.

Some 18 hours later, the gavel was struck and she, Narcissa Black, and Andromeda Tonks found themselves shuffling out of the Ministry and into the waiting claws of the press. They walked through the elevator doors victoriously with Draco in tow. As Narcissa tried to shield her feeble-looking son from the blinding cameras and the crowd of hecklers and reporters, Pansy found herself inexorably at the center of attention.

 _‘Absolutely awful. How could anyone ever get used to this?’_ She thought to herself as the voices of reporters drowned each other out in a sea of buzzing and yelling and cameras going off. Flashes came from all directions and smoke from the cameras floated above the reporters’ heads like a cloud of dust. If she closed her eyes, it almost sounded like the middle of a battlefield. She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly and thinly through her teeth as she tried to find a way out of the crowd.

Some questions were born out of mockery— “ _Pansy, Pansy! On a scale of 1 – Ex-Death Eater Family, how humiliating is it to have your old school rivals have to testify for your friends in front of the MLE Magistrate?” “Any comment on making the Worst Dressed of Witch Weekly’s Death Eater Round-Up?”—_ some were shallower, built on assumptions she had no interest entertaining _— “Ms. Parkinson, how will Malfoy’s house arrest affect your impending nuptials?” “What’s the timeline on the wedding preparations_ , _will the rehabilitation of the Malfoy Garden make it in time for a September wedding?”_ _“Are your old school mates going to be invited? Have you any word on the whereabouts of the Bullstrodes and the Davises since the end of the Final Battle?” –-_ but some were downright crude –

“ _Cleared of all charges?_ _How many Ministry officials did you personally have to diddle and pay off with daddy’s money to manage that?”_

Her snapped in the direction of the offending reporter. Unable to hold back the look of venom and outrage on her face, Pansy instantly regretted it as another blinding flash went off in front of her.

Pansy didn’t see that issue of The Daily Prophet until Padma tossed it sloppily on the coffee table of the Patil home 5 days later. It narrowly missed the pot of tea and the tray of biscuits that their mother, Bhavana Patil, had prepared for them. “Hey, P. Don’t you want to see your first close up?”

She didn’t turn her head, didn’t blink. From the corner of her eye, she could see the photo of her turning her head to face the camera, her short hair flicking sharply at the movement. Pansy kept her gaze fixed on the door of the study where her father and their parents had been discussing business matters for about an hour.

 _‘Hey, P.’_ It had been a while since either of the Patil sisters had called her that. They hadn’t had many genuinely warm interactions with each other since they were in pigtails and stockings. Patty, Penny, and P— for years, they’d been tutored by the same governess before they started at Hogwarts, enduring hours of studying tradition and tracing back the bloodlines of the Sacred 28 and respected Pureblood families’ family trees. They were taught how to walk and talk like respectable Witches. Separated from the boys for most of the year, the most socialization they got to enjoy outside of their tight little trio was when they accompanied their parents to dinner parties. They had met Draco at the Davis’ summer garden party when they were 7. Parvati and Padma had gone inside to explore Tracey’s older sister, Gertrude’s closet with Tracey and Millicent. She sat with the sullen boy under the shade of a large oak tree and ate Treacle Tarts until Narcissa Malfoy and Perseus Parkinson found them hours later. He took her sticky hand and placed the rest of the treats in her hand and smiled. _“Take the rest, Parkinson, they’re yours!”_ he said, as his mother pulled him away and immediately, she was smitten. It felt like it happened in another lifetime.

Padma stared at her with a hard expression. When Pansy didn’t answer she picked the newspaper up and walked over to the cushioned seat where Pansy was sitting, shoving it in her face.

Pansy watched the flash go off and reflect in her eyes. The photo had captured the change in her expression almost perfectly. She went from that look of practiced Pureblood haughtiness to a flash of pure vexation. The corners of her rouged lips turned down into a slight scowl, and her smooth brow crumpled in and raised slightly. Her skin was pale and pristine, like this was the most light she had seen in months. Each detail of her face, every miniscule moment in those 2 seconds that she had let a lewd comment penetrate through her cold, unbothered façade, replicated and distributed for the entire Wizarding England to watch. Over and over again.

“It’s not bad, actually. I daresay she looks quite pretty for a putrid little snake. Although, there are a few things that glamours can’t hide. Sleeping poorly, are we?” Padma inspected the sheet closely. The flash of the camera also illuminated the hollow circles under Pansy’s eyes, the dryness of her lips.

“Padma—” Parvati said weakly. Pansy eyed her curiously. Parvati, usually the louder, sillier, more gregarious of the two, sat still in her chair, her tea untouched and going cold on the table. She wore her hair down, long and silky, trailing down her back and onto the chair. She wore none of her usual jewelry: no dangling hoop earrings or gold bands on her arms, even the small diamond stud in her nose was gone. She was bare faced and splotchy, like she had scrubbed her skin raw. She was crumpled delicately on the swinging bed that hung from the ceiling, in an orange tunic and a cashmere stole around her shoulders.

“No, Parvati. She made front page, see? She’s famous. This is what she’s always wanted! Now she has all the attention!” Padma cackled, sneering at Pansy as the fireplace crackled, “What’s wrong, Pansy? Did you finally run out of things to say?” she pressed, “Or do you still think we’re not good enough for your stuffy, stuck-up little pug nose?”

“Merlin, Patty, please.” The exasperated twin buried her face into her palms, muffling her whispered pleas.

“Penny, surely you’re not _defending_ this spineless slug, not after what her people did to Lav—”

“Padma, I said **_stop! Just stop!_** ”

Parvati’s voice broke and her sister froze. The gracelessness of the moment echoed through the room.

Pansy watched Parvati look away, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth and her face furrowed with grief. Her chin quivered, “Good gods, Padma, just _stop_. It’s not going to bring them back, you know. It’s not going to bring _any_ of them back to us.” Padma kept her eyes to the floor. Parvati’s breath hitched as she tried to take deep breaths and still herself, “We all did the best we could, but there are no winners, Padma. There are no winners, we all _lost_.”

Padma swallowed and looked at Pansy with a pained expression “What did _she_ lose?”

“Padma,” her sister huffed admonished her. Parvati’s gentle brown eyes met Pansy’s, fat tears threatening to spill from them. “Pansy, won’t you say something? _Anything?_ ”

What could she say? Pansy swallowed. If anything, she sinned by saying _too much_ , butting in with snide remarks and poisonous taunts. For years, she inserted herself in situations she had no understanding of, picking the stronger side, the _superior_ company. Weakness, she’d been taught, had no place in this world. Not at home, not at school, not in society. It merited punishment, ridicule. Weakness itself was humiliation, and if you were foolish enough to wear it on your sleeves, you deserved the public embarrassment.

It had all come so easy. She could spend hours picking apart a person and undoing them, one nasty insult at a time. There had been so much satisfaction in finding the exact words that would make a person unravel, make a person second-guess themselves, their teary, mortified eyes signaling their defeat. She was tired, so tired of all the wrong words, so sick of hearing her own voice. What else could she offer people?

A few seconds passed and Patil twins held their expectant gaze. They stared at her, and she studied them, too.

Pansy stood at her full height, towering over them. She remembered the time she humiliated Parvati for standing up for Neville, when she taunted Padma for fraternizing with ginger-haired Weasley. She remembered the cruel barbs, the mocking stares, the shrill sound of her voice barking orders as she puffed out her chest to show the silver badge on the front of her robes. She felt sick.

She swallowed thickly and licked her lips. “I’m sorry, Parvati. Padma.” Her voice came out raspy, just above a whisper, the words felt foreign in her mouth. She felt chills run down her spine and the pit of her stomach go cold. _Was it enough?_ “I’m so sorry. I—”

She wondered how they looked to someone else if they had been standing in the room with them. Patty, Penny, and P, three Pureblood princesses all together in the room of their childhood after 8 long years. The Patil family found themselves crippled at the cost of being on the right side of the war, while Pansy and her father tried to salvage what they could from being on the wrong one. All three girls, lost and broken and angry, and exhausted.

 “Excuse me,” she said, smoothing her skirt down with her hands and walking over to the fireplace. She picked up a handful of Floo Powder and tossed it into the flames, watching it cast a bright green light on the faces of the two beautiful sisters she once called friends. Her voice came out gentle, almost as small and tired as she felt, “Please tell my father not to worry. I hate to leave so early into the evening, but I really must check on Draco.”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Open call for interested betas! Help me make this better.


End file.
